just a spare pair of panties, a tee shirt and a toothbrush stuffed into her purse, she was starting to feel a little under-equipped for their trip.
She followed him to the dove-gray chopper. As she approached the big helicopter—it was easily over fifty-foot long—she was reminded of the last time she had flown in one. It was during her first ever case at the embassy. Her stomach lurched a little as she recalled the turbulence they’d endured on the flight back to London, as they tried and failed to outrun a big winter storm. She swallowed hard. At least the weather today was a lot calmer.
Once they were safely harnessed inside, the helicopter rose into the air, and Ingrid spotted Angela Tate standing in the road that led to the helipad in Battersea, looking disheveled and maybe even a little defeated. Ingrid felt a twinge of pity for the reporter.
The feeling soon passed.
The journalist must have followed them all the way from Willesden, no doubt determined to get a better story for the front page of the Evening News than a child being snatched by a disgruntled father from his estranged wife. Tate would be on the hunt for bigger headlines and wouldn’t stop until she got them. Ingrid was pretty sure that the reporter’s expense account wouldn’t stretch to hiring a helicopter of her own. For a while at least, their destination would remain classified information.
Gurley tried to fit his long legs into the cramped space, twisting his body one way then the other. He finally resorted to resting his feet on the backpack with his knees up somewhere around head height.
“Maybe you didn’t need to bring all that gear,” Ingrid said, adjusting her headset so it sat more snugly on her head.
“I wasn’t going to leave it behind—I just bought this stuff. Besides, we don’t know how Foster is surviving. He’s probably living off the land, sleeping outdoors. You might find some of this stuff useful if we have to track him.”
“I might?”
“I can get all the supplies I need from the base.” He thudded the backpack with the heel of his boot. “Think of this as a small gift from me to you.”
Gee, I’m touched.
“On that subject—tracking—I want to make it clear now, I can’t have you slowing me down,” Gurley told her, his expression solemn. “No offense. It could get very physical.”
“I run five miles most days—do you?”
“It’s not just about stamina, you need strength too.”
“Don’t you worry about me.” She managed to resist the urge to have him squeeze her biceps just to prove her point.
Gurley didn’t comment. His silence told her plenty. Although she might not be capable of overpowering him in an arm wrestling contest, she was damn sure she could outrun him. But there was nothing to gain in getting pissed at his attitude, so she got back on topic. “Assuming this sighting is reliable—”
“It is.”
“OK—I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Assuming it was Foster, why would he return to Freckenham? Why get anywhere near the base? Do you think he’s planning to turn himself in?”
“He could have walked into any station house to do that.”
“Not if he thinks he can be tried in the US if he surrenders to US personnel. Maybe he just wants to go home.”
“You’re still making the mistake of assuming he’s thinking rationally. He’s gone postal—nothing he does now can be predicted with any measure of accuracy. We don’t know what’s going through the crazy S.O.B.’s head.”
Something didn’t fit with the crazed airman picture Gurley was painting. Right now Ingrid couldn’t put her finger on it. “So why do you think he’s here?”
“Maybe to seek revenge?”
“On who?”
Gurley shrugged.
“You think he really might want to hurt the people on the base?”
“Worst case scenario—maybe some folks in the village too.”
“Then we really should inform the local cops.” Ingrid didn’t want get the Suffolk force involved, but wasn’t sure she could keep the new intel from them.
“The local cops were supposed to be keeping the train and bus stations under surveillance. They didn’t do a real good job, did they?”
“Assuming this sighting is reliable.”
“Like you say—we’ll find out soon enough.”
The journey from London to Suffolk was uneventful. Ingrid’s attempts at engaging Gurley in any conversation that wasn’t directly connected to the hunt for Foster were either ignored completely—more than once Gurley feigned sleep—or slapped down as either irrelevant or too damn personal. Silence was just fine with Ingrid. It was a relief to concentrate on the view out the